Enough
by nezstereo
Summary: A brief moment between Mrs. Lovett and our own Sweeney Todd, in which he comes to a realization. Mild SweeneyLovett.


EDIT: I changed this story around, just slightly, to match the timeline of an upcoming companion piece. It's quite minor, so no worries.

AN: I've been a fan of the musical since I was a kid (I had a...interesting childhood, I guess), and when I finally got to see the movie, I was completely taken with the portrayal of Sweeney Todd's and Mr.s Lovett's somewhat unorthodox, always rocky relationship. Plus, hey, Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham-Carter made it seem better, haha.

So, I was inspired to write this...It's pretty mild stuff, but the pairing is Sweeney/Lovett, so...if that doesn't appeal to you, then hit that return button!

I apologize for any spelling or grammar errors that went overlooked by the spell check tool.

Enjoy!

The work soothes him.

He is, if anything, a troubled man, haunted by visions and thoughts he cannot control or suppress. He _hates_, and it boils within him like hot water, like the violent seas on the Pacific, and he would drown, clawing at the surface, pushed down by the current, the _force_ and the _strength_ of his hatred.

But work soothes Sweeney Todd.

He can focus on his art, the art of shaving, of precise movements of the wrist that require every fiber of his being to concentrate (or perhaps not, but he concentrates all the same).

He is also a very focused man (to put it lightly). Revenge, and performance, those are his only ideals, his only fuel.

The work is simple, and yet, delicately requires his attention. He works, and so, he can forget all of the hate, and his visions and broiling thoughts. It's easier, to forget, just like Mrs. Lovett has told him again, and again, and again. But he can't, only when he's at work.

And then, with the ever so subtle flick of his pale wrist, there's this feeling of the blade of his dear friend carving like quicksilver through the flesh of his victim, and then the precious ruby red blood falls, and flies, and there's the easy (almost instinctual) movement of his foot on the pedal of his barber's chair, and down down down goes that foolish man, and another and another, easy, like a waterfall, sliding into the cellar below, where he can hear the crackle of the fire, and smell the scent of blood and brimstone.

Yes, Sweeney Todd thinks, the work is his only comfort.

He's lying on his back, head underneath the barber's chair, moth eaten and threadbare, brow furrowed as he pushes aside these frivolous thoughts to focus on the task at hand, which in itself is a sort of work.

He's always been good with his hands, and with little things, like clocks or little toys with gears. He likes the challenge it presents him, like a puzzle, and he likes the order of it. Gears and cogs work together, each in its place, minding its own business, and when one stops working, someone will fix it, and everything works again, just as it should, and just as it always will.

It reminds him of how things appeared, before he was taken to Australia, the land of heat and sun and red hot desert.

He reaches for the wrench, and taps it on the wood of the chair's seat as his cold grey eyes scan the clockwork underbelly for the source of disruption. It had broken the evening before, late, as he serviced the last customer.

He had just slit the man's throat (a priest visiting from Ireland, which he found both ironic and darkly funny), and had leaned his head back a bit to view the dying clergyman's descent to the cellar Sweeney had taken to calling Hell, when the pedal had screeched as it was pushed upon, and the trapdoor had opened only halfway. The victim's head had gotten stuck in the space, and Sweeney, in his surprise, had released the pedal, only to realize he had allowed the door in the flooring to spring back upwards, and the man's head had been compacted with a sickening crunch.

He had stayed late into the night, scrubbing the floor with Mrs. Lovett at his side, scolding him, to which he protested that he had not known the chair to be broken.

In the end, they had deposited the body in the river, instead of cooking it, simply because they did not want to have to carry it down three flights of stairs, and drag the bloody thing through the shop, especially now that the boy Toby was sleeping in the parlor, and could wake at any moment. The only thing he remembers is the cold of the air that night, and how he had gone back and sat in the empty shop, stoking a fire to warm back up.

His companion had regarded him quietly, for once, looking at him curiously and with a reverence he always noticed, but seldom acknowledged or cared about.

Today, before anything could be done, he had to fix the chair.

He reached out for a screwdriver, but paused when he heard the click of heels on his outside steps, in a rhythm he instantly knew to be Mrs. Lovett's. Sitting up, he watched her breeze through the door, and heard the little bell clink in alert.

Cheeks flushed from the coming winter's cold chill, she beamed at him, holding in her gloved hands a square wrapped package. He frowned.

"Ah, Mr. Todd, I knew you'd be up 'ere. Fixing dear old Albert's chair, then? I'd hurry up, if I was you, you know, we can't 'ave any customers til you finish, haha."

She sits down in the faded red chair, leaning over the arm of it to peer at him, like a small child. He remains silent.

"You know," she starts, picking at a small hole in the fabric of the seat, "You haven't been yerself as of late, Mr. T."

He leans his head to side, getting to his feet, and dusting off his slacks. Still, he stays silent.

He's found it best, after knowing this woman for almost fifteen years (now that he thinks of it, they lived in the same building before he was taken, and now), that to allow her to continue on talking, you arrive at her point quicker than if you speak any reply at all. That, and he isn't quite the chatty sort, not anymore.

"What's eatin' at you, then? You've resolved to cleanse the whole world and all, and you've had more customers than ever. Toby's been quite lovely, helping me out with the pies and business is doing well. Even that daughter of yours is gonna be going off safe, with that sailor boy...what's his name..." She taps her chin thoughtfully, then shrugs.

"Doesn't really matter. Anyhow, what's got you so stony silent, love?"

He turns, staring at her for a few moments. She's certainly pretty, Mrs. Lovett, though the times and society have been unkind to her, and she has a look of madness about her, although he has that look as well. Her eyes are dark, like his, surrounding by shadow that makes them vivid and the first noticeable feature about her, contrasting her pale complexion. She's drumming her fingers along the small package's top, sitting in her lap as she waits for his answer.

He sighs. "He'll never come again. How could he ever come again?"

Shaking his head, he turns to the small dresser where the portrait of Lucy and of a baby Johanna sit, a memory now, and nothing more. The Judge despises him, and vowed to avoid this place, and he'll never get to run one of those silver friends through the goddamned Judge's throat. He clenches his fist, gritting his teeth. It's that sailor's fault, a fool in love. Mrs. Lovett has stood up, sliding behind him and leaning over his shoulder. He feels her breath on his neck.

"S'alright, Mr. Todd...We'll figure somethin' out, won't we? You and I. We're partners in crime, we are. You just keep those bodies comin' and I'll cook 'em up, and while we do that, we'll plan the plan, what for killin' the bastard what done you wrong, mm? Things are going to get better, now, Mr. T...Just wait. Which reminds me of why I came up 'ere in the first place."

She steps back and he turns away from his old life's reminders, gazing at this woman in front of him. Perhaps she is right. He'll have his revenge...The hate still remains, flowing through him, but just like his dreams of Johanna, he must live with it, until he can have Turpin's throat beneath his hands.

Mrs. Lovett pulls a letter out from the pocket of her apron, holding it out to him. He raises an eyebrow, questioning.

"What," he murmurs, "Is it?"

She laughs, and waves the letter at him again. "That's what's called a letter, Mr. Todd. It's addressed to you, from the sailor..." She pauses, brow furrowed as she searches for a name to associate with the young man's face. "Ah! Anthony, that's his name. Yes, the letter's from him."

Sweeney frowns, reaching out tentatively for the envelope. Why would that boy write to him, anyways?

He opens the letter slowly and carefully, meticulous as his slips one pale, bony finger under it's fold and breaks the wax seal perfectly in half. He sets the pieces on the dresser, and moves to sit in the broken chair. Mrs. Lovett trails, pulling up next to him, and sitting herself on the arm of the barber's seat, resting her hands on his shoulder for balance. He doesn't object, giving her a swift look, noting the secret happiness on her face, as she leans in close to him and looks over his shoulder, exhaling warm air onto his exposed neck once again. How many times has she done this, placing herself at his right arm, leaning in, ready to listen, to follow? He's only just noticed it now. Clearing his throat, he gives her another quick look.

"Shall I read aloud then?" He stares at the ready paper flap of the envelope, waiting to be opened. Mrs. Lovett gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, almost too light to notice (but he notices everything anyway).

"Only if you want to, Mr. T. Do what you like. I don't mind."

He doesn't miss out on the tone in her voice, as if she is implying so many other things than what he has asked of her, and he feels a heat rise in his neck and cheeks, at the thought. She's usually not so rash in her advances towards him, opting instead to simply be there, close to him if he doesn't object, but she's being bolder today, and he wonders why, but does not ask. He keeps quiet, and makes no reply to her comment, instead clearing his throat again, and beginning to read aloud.

_"Dear Mr. Todd,_

_I do apologize for barging into your shop. I especially apologize for unintentionally provoking the Judge Turpin's anger at you and your establishment, considering how I respect you, and consider you a friend. I did not mean to cause you a loss of business, and I am sorry. I only did so out of my joy and excitement at the prospect of seeing my love, Johanna, married to be, free as we flee this city. Now, I fear that will not be, especially without your help. _

_While I visited Johanna, I told her of your past life, and your imprisonment, and how you would help us escape. She was so grateful, and so touched by your story (retold to her by myself) she composed a letter of thanks to you in advance, which I was going to give to you, earlier these past weeks, when I entered your shop and caused such disruption. So, I am delivering it enclosed to you now, along with my deepest apologies. _

_I hope you can forgive me._

_Anthony."_

Mrs. Lovett chuckles cruelly. "Ha! He's only writing to make you want to 'elp 'im steal your daughter away from the Judge, you know. Only for himself."

Ignoring this, Sweeney folds this piece of paper, revealing underneath a much fancier parchment, written with what could only be an expensive fountain pen. It's written a handwriting that looks eerily like his own, and he recalls a day, years and years ago, when Johanna was small and untying intricate knots in the clothes on her doll, that Lucy had said, jokingly to him, that their daughter would grow up a barber like he was, with such skill with her hands. Like father, like daughter, he thinks now, looking at his Johanna's letter. He runs his hand over it, with reverence. It may be the only correspondence he'll ever have with his now-grown little girl. He begins again.

_"To Mr. Sweeney Todd,_

_In advance, I give you my utmost thanks for your incredible kindness, in helping Antony and I flee from my captor's home. I fear I have little time left now, though until what, I cannot say, and with your aid, I feel as if I could escape this nightmare city, if only that._

_Mr. Todd, I know we do not know each other, and we have never met, but I feel as if you are somewhat familiar. As if I've heard your story before...But I am only imagining things, I'm sure. _

_I also sympathize with you, for like you were, I am imprisoned behind these walls, longing to be free. I can only imagine what it must have been like, to be exiled in that hot desert land. I am truly sorry for your suffering. _

_I look forward to meeting you, when we reconvene at your shop until the boat arrives to take us away. I am sure you are a man of the utmost character, and judgment. _

_May we meet soon._

_Johanna"_

He stares at the paper for a moment afterward, willing more words to have been written. His only daughter, and this is all of her he'll ever know, now. The Judge has no doubt done something to silence her, or prevent her from leaving. They will never meet, just as he thought. His heart feels both light and heavy, knowing his daughter sees him as a good man, and for knowing he will never get to show her how good of a man he could be (or once was, before).

Almost as if she knows what he thinks, Mrs. Lovett croons softly in his ear.

"Ah, poor Mr. Todd, I know you miss her, even if you haven't seen her since she was a baby. You don't stop missing a child, even after they've gone...There, there, love, is there anything I can do to help? You want some gin, then?"

She's making small circles on his back, gently, to calm him, and he closes his eyes against her touch, just this once...

He loses himself in the thoughts that always lie just beneath the surface, the what ifs and the fanciful thoughts of what might have been. He turns to his favorite, of him running a steady, successful barbershop, while his Lucy writes stories for a paper, or books, even, and little Johanna is lovely, running about her father, watching him work, or drawing. He imagines her as talented with her hands, just as his wife has predicted, an artist and a good needle worker, and in the present, he feels the corners of his mouth turn upwards just slightly at the thought.

But then, like he always does, he remembers what has happened, and he sees visions of his love, and his little daughter, both shadowed under the man named Turpin, Lucy cold and pale like death and Johanna, face full of fear as he watches the Judge advancing towards her...

No!

He must forget...He must forget...He knows it's impossible, and he has tried countless times to do it, but no matter how strong willed, he cannot forget what has been done to Benjamin Barker and his family. He will never forget and never forgive.

He gives a heavy sigh, and suddenly, is reminded of Mrs. Lovett's prescence when he shifts in the chair, causing the paper on the package she has been holding to crinkle too loudly. She gives a little noise of apology, seeming to notice his face cringe in annoyance and surprise, lifting her hands from his shoulders, and resting them firmly over the bundle, to quiet it. He folds both letters, replacing them into the envelope, and putting this into his breast pocket. He banishes it from thought, turning himself in the chair so that he faces his landlady, and sometimes friend. He nods to the wrapped package.

"What is that you're holding, Mrs. Lovett?"

She looks at him, then to the bundle in her lap, as if only noticing it now, and then, her face brightens.

"Ah, this is somethin' for you, Mr. T...I noticed you shiverin' last night, and thought, what with winter coming so fast, you might need it, to keep from catching ill. It'd be awful, losing you to some deathly sickness, Mr. Todd..."

Her face darkens, and then, remembering that she still holds the gift itself, she hands it to him, with more enthusiasm than she handed him the letter. He takes it, and stares down at the bundle, frowning, his mind racing as he wonders what she could have possibly gotten for him...

The wrapping paper is worn and faded, as if it's been locked away in a drawer for who knows how long, and it's a dull red, just like the chair they're both sitting on. It's tied with normal string, wrapped in a careful knot and bow, almost lovingly. He unties it and unfolds the paper with just as much care as he did the envelope, to reveal a knitted maroon scarf. He looks up at her, not knowing what to think or say.

It's the first present he's ever gotten since he left London, and he surprises himself with how touched he is with such a gift. He knows she's made it herself, and remembers back when, that she had been quite good at knitting things. A good seamstress.

She's looking at him, hopeful and expectant, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she watches him unravel the scarf, holding it gently in his hands. She smiles.

"You like it, then? I wasn't quite sure, about the color of it. You're more of a grey, white and black type of man, as far as clothing goes, but I remembered you liked red coats and such, when you lived here last. Lucky for me, I had enough red for a whole scarf...Now, you won't be as chilly, Mr. Todd. Here, try it on..."

She leans forwards, taking the present from him, and wrapping it around his neck twice, so that its ends hang at his waist. She nods her approval.

"There ya go. You look right handsome. Even more so, than usual, Mr. T."

He doesn't know what to say.

She tries so hard, to make him see how much she cares, and he can imagine easily, the image of her, sitting on her chaise lounge, making this scarf for him, late into last night, occasionally glancing up at the ceiling, knowing he worked late too, but for other reasons.

He's always ignored her, or at least, acted indifferent when she talks to him, or runs a hand across his arm, so small a gesture, like she knows he'll never notice, but he does, he just doesn't care. Or take the time to.

Johanna thinks him a complete stranger, and yet, she thinks of him, and feels truly sorry. She knows not that he is her father, and yet, she cares for him. He has known Mrs. Lovett for almost two weeks, but it feels like much longer and at least, he has known her better than he did before he was sent away, but even so, he has shown no concern for her.

Such a girl of fifteen, and yet, she is a better person than he.

Simply because he has revenge to take, it should not stop him from appreciating those close to him.

He wants, suddenly, to make Mrs. Lovett happy, and before he has time to think about his actions, he leans forwards, her hands still resting on the ends of the scarf, and kisses her softly.

She stiffens, and then returns his kiss, clutching as if to keep from drowning the deep red scarf hanging around his neck. He pulls back, and leans his forehead against hers, only briefly, and whispers.

"Thank you. For all you do for me."

The feeling, the realizations, and the strange sensation her lips have left against his own make him sit up, running the material of his new blood red scarf through his thumb and forefinger. He enjoyed the kiss, and he feels guilty, recalling now his wife and his purpose. He can suppress the feeling of holding her, of her hands, small, gripping him, needing him. He forgets this moment, at least for now, and he knows Mrs. Lovett well enough to know she will not speak of it, unless he brings it up.

He won't.

Mrs. Lovett stares at him, her mouth still open, her hand brought up midway in a sort of "oh". She's shocked senseless by his actions, and she's trying her best not to melt into the chair, or stand up herself, and push him back into the seat, and have her wicked ways with him, just as she's imagined, so many times. She sits on the arm of the barber's chair for several seconds, and once she's come to her senses, she brushes flour (the constance of flour) off her dress. She knows, deep within her heart, he probably did it because he knew she wanted him to, and knew she's wished he would. But the fact that he realized this is enough to make her heart pound even more, as she watches him pace in front of his window like a jungle cat, that red scarf now a reminder, for her at least, of this instance where he showed her he knows she cares.

It is not much, but she'll always remember it. She will never forget.

It is not much, but it is enough.

She leaves him quietly, taking the stairs two at a time, and once she's in her parlor, she gives into her desires, and she lets out a loud yell of happiness into one of her moth eaten pillows, then falls back onto her couch, beaming and blushing, and cursing that completely unpredictable man who lives above.

Above, Sweeney Todd has forgotten the tender moment.

Above, he has returned to the chair, and the cold gears, and his thoughts of blood, and of silver razors. But then, he hears the footsteps of Mrs. Lovett below, and almost instinctually, without him knowing, he flashes an actual smile before picking up the wrench, and tapping experimentally on one of the bolts.

Yes, he thinks, it is enough.


End file.
